


Sloth in Soho

by Hel_in_NL



Series: Sins, Virtues, and the Disregarding of Them [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Nightmares, crowley is a demon with imagination, that bites him in the ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-15 21:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19304599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hel_in_NL/pseuds/Hel_in_NL
Summary: A few weeks after Apocalypse Interrupted Crowley decides a change of scene will be good for him and moves closer to Aziraphael cuz why not?Then shit hits the fan.





	1. Moving and Dwelling

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [苏活区里的懒恶魔](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412421) by [amazingwoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingwoods/pseuds/amazingwoods)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 07/01: The great editing begins. Grammar and typos fixed in Chapter 1. Something sentences restructured and at least one continuity error obliterated. Probably not worth picking through if you already read it and I'll leave a note if something does change. :) Happy Canada Day, luvs.

Crowley, as a demon living on earth, was very familiar with sin. In fact, he considered himself an expert in all seven of the cardinal ones, having indulged in each and every one over his eternal life. Sometimes daily. Sometimes multiple times a day. Hell, _hourly_ when he was having particularly strong streak of indulgence and wickedness.  
  
Pride was perhaps his number one go to. Oh, he wasn’t exactly _proud_ of being a demon. There was something about the role that always seemed to fit poorly, like he had walked into a boutique and picked out a good quality Halloween costume instead of an actual outfit. No, his pride was centered on his cleverness and good looks. He fancied himself one of the more intelligent demons from the pit and he always kept his appearance in top shape, never giving over to the warts and blemishes of his counterparts. Perhaps if he had spent more time ‘in the office’ he’d let himself go but, as it were, he didn’t have to worry about _that_ much anymore.

Wrath was another one he was fairly adept with. He had been simmering with anger for well over six thousand years. Anger at the Almighty for tossing him aside, anger at Lucifer for being so well spoken and appealing to his rather curious and rebellious nature, anger at his former ‘friends’ for turning their back when he Fell, anger at his fellow demons for being such a sorry, pathetic lot, anger at himself for not leaving well enough alone.

He was careful with his Wrath, afraid of its unending intensity. There were those that didn’t deserve his anger, after all, and he was never one for letting something so deeply personal wound those around him. Better to direct it at the foliage and piss people off with inconveniences so they could feel a fraction of what he felt daily.  
  
He related Envy directly back to his Wrath. He could taste the want on his forked tongue before he fell into a particularly bad fit. He envied the heavenly hosts and their clean lines and nicely coiffed visages. They had never tasted sulfur or had to wrestle with their own, personal beasts taking a very physical form. He envied humans and their ability to flit about doing as the pleased, even when they felt they had no control at all. He envied even his fellow demons for how easily they abandoned their past selves and threw themselves into their roles. Wrath and Envy, feeding each other constantly in never ending supply.  
  
Much like the former, Gluttony and Greed held on to each other tightly. Greed spurred him to have things. He didn’t need a flat or plants or a fancy car or expensive clothing and accessories...yet he had all of these things and, even as he considered himself a minimalist, he always had an eye out for new souvenirs. He wanted what others had on earth, a home and the things that came with it but he never felt like it was enough. There was always something more he needed. A void that he was always trying to fill.  
  
Lust. Lust was nice. Lust was ( _mostly_ ) harmless and felt ( _mostly_ ) good. One could lust after something or someone and never need possess it. He lusted often. Sometimes he’d indulge. A pretty face with a prettier smile could destroy him, leaving him weak in the knees. A few whispered words and a smile of his own and he could indulge in not only his own lust but others as well. Sure, sometimes a husband or wife would be hurt or a career ruined but it seemed so _small_ and surmountable. Harmless, in the great scheme of things, and a good side note in a memo back to the office.  
  
Well, when he had to send memos to offices. He didn’t really do that anymore, though he still kept track in case things went tits up.  
  
Now, Sloth. Sloth was his all time favorite. Sloth was _easy._ He could do nothing for years and, if ever called out on it, he need only say he was practicing or coax the mortals in his surrounding area into following his lead then all was fine again. He had slept a century away, once, letting his aura spread out like the blankets he had nestled under. When he woke up he had found the quaint neighborhood he had taken up in had grown to be rather materially wealthy with unscrupulous souls who were growing fat off the hard work and pain of others while they, themselves, did nothing.  
  
Head office had _loved_ it. A true long game. He had gotten a certificate of commendation with Lucifer’s signature and everything. It was currently packed away in the bottom of one of the few boxes he was stacking near the front door of his flat.  
  
Head office didn’t call on him anymore. He had been fired which...well. It didn’t mean much, really. He was still a demon with demonic vices, only now he could perform, tempt,  and create mischief in ways the pleased _him_ instead of some great Beast with a fancy signature. The only downside was that severance package: a constant sense of paranoia and dread coupled with a feeling that he should change things up in his life.  
  
He had decided to move a few weeks after he did his part in averting apocalypse. His sparse, brutalist inspired flat no longer seemed fitting for his new lease on life. Its concrete walls reminded him too much of the hallways of Hell and what use was that anymore? He toyed with the idea of using his talents to redecorate but, even with his unlimited imagination, he found it hard to see the space differently than it was.  
  
Better to start fresh in a new location and let the place itself inspire who he wanted to be.  
  
That his new place happened to be in Soho was brilliant stroke of luck that he tried to not think too hard about. Soho was a sought out neighborhood, after all. People could end up on waiting lists a hundred names deep for a decent one bedroom flat without a kitchen. Anything beyond that was snapped up before the ink could dry in the classifieds section of the paper.   
  
That not only a flat but an all out _house with a driveway_ had opened up and was available around the time he started looking was nothing short of unlikely. That it was not even a five minute walk from a certain book shop in an area that he was certain sported very few houses was miraculous.  
  
He didn’t question it out loud. He had only made arrangements, paid not only a deposit but his first years rent in advance, and told Aziraphale of his great luck when they had met for dinner that night.  
  
Aziraphale had looked guileless. Truly astounded. _What good news, Crowley! Surely that meant he’d visit more often? Perhaps they could have lunch! Daily, even!_  
  
Crowley pretended to not notice that the angel seemed smug. He was good at noticing these things. He was better at ignoring them.

He was an _expert_ at ignoring a lot of things about Aziraphale, none of which were worth recounting because acknowledging was exactly the opposite of ignoring. He wasn’t sure which vice steadfastly ignoring something fell under. Perhaps Sloth? Yes. That seemed to fit well enough.  
  
Even thinking of his favorite sin made his eyes itch with sleep. Well, he _had_ been packing for a few days straight. Even before that he had been avoiding indulging himself for over a week. Unlike most demons, Crowley could dream. He quite liked it, most times, as they were usually just ideal reflections of his everyday life. A particularly well executed plan, a smooth temptation, a green house all of his own, a good evening spent in angelic company….  
  
His last nap had been...tumultuous. The images weren't... _right._ As if Dali had gotten into his brain and took a paintbrush across it. It had been a nightmare, something a demon should be unfazed by. Yet it had stuck with him.  
  
It was a coincidence that he had decided that a change of scenery was needed the next day.  
  
He was shaken from his thoughts by the buzzer of his flat notifying him of the arrival of the movers. Great. Good. Late but, hey, who was he to pitch a fuss about it?  
  
He was a demon, after all.  
  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Aziraphale, angelic principality, was a common sight in Soho. Most paid him no mind. He and his shop were simply a fixture of the neighborhood. That both seemed to never age or go anywhere were an afterthought, barely retained once they passed him on the street. Still, when people did momentarily latch onto his presence, they usually noted a book or a take away bag tucked under his arm as he fussed about.  
  
The probably explained the occasional curious look he was getting as, instead of either of those items, he had a potted plant tucked under his arm. He was quite proud of it. A succulent with a dark top and golden undersides that reminded him of Crowley perfectly. A fantastic house warming present!  
  
He hoped.  
  
Luckily, hope was something he had in abundance.  
  
There was perhaps the tiniest bit of a spring in his step as he by-passed his shop, heading to his dearest friends new abode. Crowley had been in his neighborhood entire day now and he hadn’t been over for tea! Never mind the demon had warned him to stay away for at least twenty-four hours as he moved in and decorated to his liking. Aziraphale had offered to help, of course. A celestial being and demonic one working miracles together was certain to make the work go faster than one on their own!  
  
Crowley had politely declined. Well, politely for Crowley.  
  
Aziraphale had followed his instructions to the letter and he was nothing if not punctual. Even his diversion to the garden center had been planned to ensure is left him just the right amount of time to make the trek, on foot, to his best friends house.  
  
He beamed brightly at the home as he approached, feeling quite proud of himself for just how _well_ everything had played out. The owners, a sweet elderly couple that had stuck together through thick and thin, had quite suddenly come into a bit of a windfall in the form of a winning lottery scratch ticket and decided to retire to villa in Spain as they had always dreamed of doing. The only reason they had decided to not sell the home out right to some enterprising developer was because of the need to have a source of extra income. A good, well deserved stroke of fortune for some truly decent and loving people that Aziraphale had been quietly envying and appreciating for well over a decade.   
  
That Crowley had been planning on relocating and that it was just _so close_ to his shop was a coincidence. Mostly. He may have worked a _little_ miracle on the lottery ticket and, perhaps, mentioned how the home would probably be torn down when sold in a passing conversation with the couple...but that was it!  
  
...well, aside from inspiring the garden to bloom a bit brighter just in case Crowley _did_ decide to look into it. Which he had.  
  
He opened the gate to the front path with barely contained excitement. It screeched loudly on rusted hinges, causing him to wince. Oh. Oh that wouldn’t do at all! A flick of his hand and the screeching stopped, the hinges suddenly well oiled. That done he made his way to the front door, noting that the plants in the flower bed seemed to be in need of a good watering. Hm. Crowley must not be quite settled yet...or he was hesitant to scream at his flower beds in broad daylight in front of a busy street.  
  
Still contemplating the state of the garden he distractedly knocked on the door, a soft sound that barely reached his own ears. Somehow, Crowley always heard his tentative knocking.  
  
Except this time he was left waiting. He shifted the plant in his arms, making it more obviously seen for when Crowley opened the door. He waited.  
  
Then, after a brief moment of anxious hesitation, knocked again. Louder. Perhaps the acoustics of the demons former flat allowed for his knocks to carry differently than this house.  
  
More silence. More strange stillness. Certainly he was in? He surely wouldn't move in then pop out on an errand without stopping by?  Crowley knew his habits, after all, and would know he'd be on time. He supposed he could reach out, touch Crowley’s aura, and simultaneously know the demons position and notify him of his presence but they tended to leave that for more urgent circumstances. Brushing each others aura’s and tracking one another was...well, it felt _invasive._ Neither of them were a fan, though Aziraphale often wondered if Crowley’s ability to appear where he happened to be was the result of him ‘checking in’ more often than he let on.  
  
He never asked about it.  
  
Aziraphale’s brow pinched in confusion. Still no answer. He was debating whether he should knock again, reach out with his energy, or just walk straight through the door when the said door suddenly just...swung open. “Ah! I was beginning to-” He stopped and peered into the home. It seemed dark for a sunny afternoon. As far as he could tell everything had been unpacked and Crowley's possessions were now adorning the interior but it felt... _off._  
  
Well, a door opening with no one behind it, as it had, _would_ feel off.  
  
Aziraphale hesitated at the threshold. He was not one for horror movies but he did indulge, from time to time, in written works of the macabre and dreadful. It was a bit of a morbid fascination of his and horror did offer some fantastic insights into the heart of man and the fears that plagued them. It was research, he told himself.

This was like one of those penny dreadfuls. A door opening on its own, inviting an unwitting guest to indulge their curiosity. Only...Aziraphale knew the nature of beasts that lurked in the shadows, this one being particularly familiar.   
  
Once again he considered reaching out but...what if this was a game? Would he be ruining some surprise of Crowley's if he started prodding? If his hands hadn’t been occupied by the potted succulent he would have fretfully wrung them. Everything felt strange. He was deeply attuned to the emotions of others but Crowley always had a firm wall in place. It would develop a fissure from time to time, such as when doomsday was bearing down upon them, and Aziraphale could feel the fear and desperation in the demons being. Since then, though, the wall had gone back up and Crowley had gotten back to being Crowley, albeit without infernal direction.  
  
There was a tidal wave of emotions being held in just beyond that door way. A floodgate waiting to spill out into the surrounding area. Aziraphale could pick up on no one dominant emotion, rather it was like everything was being felt all at once, all the time. The longer he tried to tune in to it the more his stomach churned.  
  
Right. Something needed to be done. He needed to cross into the unknown.  
  
His feet stayed rooted in place. Oh. He was afraid. What if this was an unwelcome intrusion?  
  
A moment more of hesitation and he straightened his already impeccable posture further. He was the Guardian of the Eastern gate! A Rogue Angel! A bookshop keeper that was regularly cussed out by humans with names like _Helen_ or _Karen_! He could handle a little unknown evil!  
  
With that in mind he took a breath...and crossed the threshold.  
  
The door swung shut behind him.


	2. Pride Hung the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited 07/03: Fixed grammar and spelling mistakes. Fixed some awkward phrasing. Finally noticed that I was cocking up Aziraphales name (Aziraphael) and fixed that shit. Now I gotta go look every where else. :P

Aziraphale stayed frozen in the porch for what seemed like an eternity after the door swung shut behind him, fighting off the sense of dread that came when something so perfectly cliche happened in real life. Well then. That was...something.  
  
He cleared his throat and pulled at his bow tie on impulse, straightening it then un-straightening it in the same fiddly movement. “Crowley?” He called, willing his voice to not come out as a hissing, soft shout and, instead, something that would carry more. He wasn’t afraid. He was NOT afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of.  
  
In fact, if not for the hurricane of second hand emotions buffeting him, he would say that nothing was wrong. Crowley had made quick, efficient work of his move, it seemed. There was a new paint, new hardwood, new _everything_ smell hanging heavily in the air along side a tingle of infernal miracling. A whole renovation done in twenty-four hours. Crowley’s rather perfectionist, efficient nature when it came to his living space was on full display.  
  
He moved from the porch, mindful to toe off his shoes lest the demon bark at him for tracking in dirt, and into the home. He had never been inside when the original owners resided here. He had only knew them threw casual interactions and his own angelic prowess. He imagined it would be dated in the same way his own flat was, given how long they had lived here. Perhaps it had been yesterday.  
  
The space was currently quite trendy, like he had stepped into the world’s coziest discotheque. The floors were so spotless he could see his reflection in the dark wood and the furniture occupying the main living area was made with rich, jewel toned velvet's that looked inviting and sleek at the same time. His fingers twitched with an urge to run his hands over the fabric and test whether they were as luxurious as they appeared to be.  The light fixtures, though off, seemed to be of the ultra-modern, chrome, dimmable sort. Perhaps they were ‘smart lights’ or whatever they were called. Crowley had seemed quite keen on the ‘smart house’ concept when they were talking about his plans. Magic without magic, he had called it, grinning and tipsy, sprawled across a stack of Aziraphale’s uninventoried books.  
  
( _Fetching_ , Aziraphale had thought in that moment. Then, just as soon as the thought had entered his rather inebriated head space, he banished it. Crowley was always fetching. He _excelled_ at being fetching and the man knew it. He didn’t need him to tell him that. So he didn’t.)  
  
A cursory glance around the first floor revealed more of Crowley’s surprisingly tasteful decor choices but nothing of the man himself. Second floor it was, then.  
  
Ascending the stairs proved to be more of an endeavor than the angel could have ever expected. Crowley was definitely up there if the sudden wall of emotion that struck him was anything to go by. His stomach twisted so violently that, if he had been human, he surely would have not only vomited but passed out as well. As it were, though, it only set him springing upwards, taking the steps two at a time in his urgency.  
  
Wrong, wrong, _wrong_. Something was _wrong._ His other worldly blood was boiling in his veins. The last time he had felt this kind of reaction was when Satan burst through the ground and fixed them all in his vengeful gaze.  
  
Some foul game was afoot and Crowley was at the center. He hoped the demon himself was not the cause. No. Crowley was good at his core and had a well honed sense of self preservation. He would never intentionally hurt himself or others.  
  
He hoped.

He found the bed room on the first try, throwing the door open dramatically like some kind of pulp hero. For a moment he felt let down, his shoulders sagging with just as much drama. Crowley was sleeping so soundly that he didn’t even stir when the door hit the wall, cracking the plaster. There was no obvious threat within sight.  Aziraphael was berating himself for his overreaction and preparing to fix the damage-then it hit him again. That barrage of rapid fire, overly intense feelings.  
  
Crowley was having a nightmare. Fascinating! He knew the demon thoroughly enjoyed his ‘beauty sleep’ but he had never mentioned anything about dreaming. Perhaps it was something that only demons could do? Or...only Crowley? Perhaps any otherworldly being could do it but they never did because sleep was not truly needed. Heaven knows it had never been something he indulged-  
  
Another wave brought his thoughts up short and redirected his attention back to his sleeping companion. Crowley’s smooth brow and slack jaw held no sign of the distress he was experiencing. If Aziraphale wasn’t tuning into the evidence first hand he would have believed nothing to be wrong. It couldn’t be allowed to continue, though. Too much risk of all this negative energy spilling over into the streets. Humans were more sensitive to these kinds of influences than they would ever know. 

The demon may wake up cross with him but that was better than the hurt he was enduring. Aziraphale would weather his sour mood and offer to take him to brunch when his fit wore down.  
  
“Crowley, dear,” he called gently, like a parent waking their child up for school, approaching his bedside and daring to place a hand on his slender shoulder. “It’s time to wake up.”  
  
Nothing. Not even a flinch. This was not the first time Aziraphale had caught the demon napping and he knew for a fact that he was easy to rouse. Typically he’d make production of stretching and blinking blearily up at him with a peculiar expression that the angel was never quite able to decipher before asking what day it was and looking put off that he’d been woken up early. When he was up, he was up, though.  
  
There was a feeling like ice water in the lungs building in Aziraphale's chest. This was new. This was wrong. He didn't quite like new or wrong, especially when it came to someone as reliable and devoted as Crowley. A chain reaction of feelings began to set off inside him, leading up to possibly the worst one for the situation: panic. 

Before he could reconsider he was kneeling on the bed, nearly straddling the sleeping man, and shaking him. “Crowley! For Heaven's sake, Crowley!” His voice pitched with a budding panic. Crowley was limp in his hands, a rag doll to be tossed about. If it weren’t for the periodic darting beneath his eyelids and the warmth he radiated he would have thought him dead.  
  
The thought sent a fresh jolt of alarm coursing through his body. It was irrational, of course! Nothing short of a bucket of holy water could kill his friend and they had seen to it that no one would give that a try anytime soon. Besides, he was right here. Everything was fine. Well, physically it was.  
  
What was he to do? There was most certainly something foul afoot but what it was he simply didn’t know. It was unlikely he’d receive any aid if it was requested. Heaven still sent him their missives and he did his duty in the Almighties name but his fellow angels had taken to treating him like an aberration since the HellFire incident went awry for them. He had a good laugh when Crowley recounted it all to him but now, well, it certainly made it difficult to ask for assistance.  
  
Not that they would come. What was he going to say? ‘Hello Gabrielle! Sorry for that end of the world business but I could really use a hand with my dear Crowley! You remember him right? Handsome chap with the glasses? Demon?’  
  
As Crowley had once said, that would likely go over like a lead balloon.  
  
He doubted that he’d get any help from Crowley’s side for the same reasons. Not that he really wanted to ask. Certainly if any demon caught wind of his dear friends current state they would quite literally seize the opportunity with both hands and throttle him!  
  
Not that he’d let them. No. He’d never let them. He’d smite the lot if they even tried, paperwork be damned!  
  
That left only himself. _“Our Side.”_ He’d have to muddle his way through this.  
  
He’d have to reach in without Crowley's explicit permission and suss it all out.  
  
It was the best course of action. Yet it felt so very wrong. Switching bodies had been done with explicit consent and they had both agreed back then that they wouldn’t invade each other’s private thoughts through that connection. It certainly wouldn’t be welcome now that they were themselves again.  
  
Tentatively he reached out his aura, opening himself up to Crowley, testing the waters. He had been near sickened on the stairs by the waves emotion he felt and he had been mostly closed off then. Now, with the doors opened a tentative crack, he could feel more, see more. The way Crowley’s aura flared as brightly as the sun only to dim as if snuffed out the in the next second. A terrible seesaw of conflicting emotions that was distressing for the angel to interact with.  
  
Yet he threw himself wide open to it. He’d not cower in the face of this. Crowley had done stupid, dangerous things over the millennia for Aziraphale's sake. How could he hesitate a moment longer when faced with the evidence of his dearest friends turmoil? How could he even call _himself_  his dearest friend if he did not do that for him?  
  
It was on that soul steeling thought that Aziraphale let himself be fully swept up by the demon and pulled into him. Invasion or privacy or no, he’d figure this out and face Crowley's anger later.  
  
He prayed he’d forgive him.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Strangely enough, Aziraphale’s sense of smell returned to him before his sight or hearing. He could smell fresh stardust and void, the scents of brand new universe. It stirred something in his heart he hadn’t felt since he left Heaven to guard Eden. Could it be…?  


Yes! His hearing and sight came back together and he was blessed with celestial harmonies being sung from a distance and the great, velvety black expanse of the universe. This wasn’t Heaven. This was the place that existed above and below and to the sides of all existence, where stars were hung and galaxies born. Except there was very little of either, at the moment. Every now and then a light would flicker on, light years away or color would bloom.  
  
This was the Beginning. The time before Earth. The time before Heaven was called such. Before the Rebellion.  Before Angels had names. This was the time when they all had one goal and one love: Please the Almighty, their Creator, and follow Her instructions to make all this void into something _beautiful._

He hadn’t been one those to decorate the cosmos. It was something he watched from afar with delight as he basked in Her words and love. Actually, now that he allowed himself to think about it, he hadn’t really had a job  before he was given his sword and told to fight in the Rebellion.  
  
Giving himself a shake of the head, he cleared his thoughts of nostalgia. This wasn’t real. This was a dream. A sense of astonishment overcame him as he remembered that. _This was a dream._ ** _Crowley’s_** _dream._  
  
There he was. Red hair that fell in perfect, loose ringlets past his shoulder blades, standard issue white, linen robes wrapped about his slender frame, and brilliant white wings tucked tightly to his back as he floated aimlessly in the rich darkness of the void, a finger pressed to his lips and his brows knit in unexplained consternation.  
  
Aziraphael’s heart give a rather alarming lurch in chest. A part of him always wondered about Crowley before the Fall. It was a period of time that the demon refused to speak about. Well, except for that one time when they were polishing off their second bottle of red wine at the shop and Crowley began flipping through books of astronomy. “Oi! That’s one of mine!” He had declared in drunken delight upon seeing a grainy photo of a nebula.  
  
He had clammed up when pressed and never spoke of it again, leaving Aziraphale desperately curious.  
  
“Crowley!” He called and flew forward. Oh! He hadn’t even realized his wings were out. He didn’t have time to question it as he was finding it difficult to make any kind of head way. There was a pressure that made it nigh impossible to move his wings, like he was flying through a thick custard. His progress was painfully slow and inexplicably exhausting.  
  
“I’m here! Just...wait!” He didn’t know what he was telling him to wait for. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing happening to cause the former angel any kind of distress.

Crowley continued to look out into the void, seemingly not hearing him. At times tilting his head to the left or right as if to get a better angle on the blackness and tapping his finger to his pursed lips in thought. Oh how Aziraphale wished he could see the man’s eyes! Not only would they satiate his own curiosity as to what God had bestowed on him at the Beginning but they would also tell a story. Crowley tended to be rather expressive, sans sunglasses, something he was sure the man knew.  
  
Crowley spread his wings and arms slowly, as if stretching out some kink in his celestial body. Then he was in motion, waving his hands gracefully like the conductor of a great symphony, summoning saturated scarlet's, brilliant blues, vivid violets, and just a _touch_ of turquoise. He swirled and mixed, swayed and bowed, utterly lost  in his work. Aziraphale could only stare, mouth agape, as a nebula he had never known to exist took shape.

 _Stunning. Absolutely stunning._ He had an appreciation and love for all creation but, in that moment, he loved this more than anything else. It reeked of a passion that was denied most angels, a wildness that he thought unknown back then.  
  
Just as quickly as it started it was done and Crowley was back to sitting in the void, studying his handiwork.  
  
No matter the time period, Aziraphael knew when his friend was dissatisfied. Why he should be he had no idea. This was a marvelous creation! He never took Crowley for a painter but now he wondered if he had ever picked it up in the past six thousand years. It would probably be a good outlet for him. He’d have to suggest it when everything was better.  
  
“It’s beautiful, Crowley,” he tried, hoping his voice carried over the distance between them. He had never meant anything more in his life. Crowley didn’t react. He merely kept looking.  
  
Aziraphael was growing irritated. What was he to do if he couldn’t make Crowley hear him? Why was this memory causing him such distress and what did it have to do with his continued slumber?  
  
The nebula was wiped from existence with a sudden violence that sent the angel reeling. What in heaven’s name-?!

Crowley's wings were fluffed up, his hand extended, teeth bared. “That’s not the best I can do,” he hissed to himself, angrily. “Amateur. Not worthy of notice. I shall never be seen with a production like _that._ ”  
  
There was a fire in his primary feathers, a blackening at the very quills. Crowley showed no sign of noticing but Aziraphael could feel the anger reverberating in the space around them. The frustration was palpable, a toxic kind of pride shattering the serenity of the void, quite literally splintering it. The heavenly chorus is the distance was warping like one was attempting to play a warped vinyl record.  
  
There was a hint of brimstone in the air.  
  
A new nebula, more gaudy and brilliant than the last, was created only to be destroyed. Again and again. A Sisyphean task of Crowley’s own creation that Aziraphale was helpless to-

 

 _No._ To say he was helpless was akin to despair. If he despaired there would be no one left to help Crowley. He needed to break this down, part by part, determine the core issue, and proceed in _some_ way.  
  
This was...what? Crowley didn’t feel like he was doing well enough. No. Simpler. Crowley wanted to be noticed? Simpler again.  
  
Crowley was...Crowley was….  
  
Prideful. He wanted to be prideful and be noticed for his efforts. He wanted this nebula to be the best version of itself so everyone would look at it and say ‘Crowley made that!’ Yet he couldn’t find peace. It wasn’t good enough. The nature of this unending night was that it would _never_ be good enough for the Almighty or himself.  
  
Aziraphale found in himself a new strength and pushed forward towards his increasing frantic friend, wings straining with the effort and hand outstretched. Just a little further. Just-just a little--!  
  
His fingers wrapped firmly about the man’s thin wrist, bringing his frenzied movements to a sudden halt. For the first time since he entered this space Crowley was aware of him. Crowley was looking at him with eyes that simply were not there. Oh goodness. Oh oh oh! It was all the angel could do not to recoil in horror.  
  
Instead he smiled his gentlest, most reassuring smile, unsure if it could even be seen. “My dear, what a beautiful thing you’ve made. Truly, I’ve never seen anything quite so stunning,” he soothed, stroking the demons ego and meaning every syllable. It felt strange to compliment him like this. He was normally trying to encourage humility but...Crowley had been prideful since the beginning, apparently. Maybe, just maybe, validation would act as a balm to his soul.  
  
Crowley gaped for a moment. “...Angel…?” He began, confusion etching lines across his face as the world around him began to make less sense. “It...it’s just like the other ones….”  
  
“Not so!” Aziraphale vehemently reassured, using his contact with the demon to lever himself closer, bringing his body near flush to Crowley’s own. He attempted to wrap him up in a feeling of well being. “You’ve done quite well.”  
  
Validation truly was medicine to the former angel. Even this simple acknowledgment snuffed the fire in his wings. He looked away, colour staining his cheeks. “It’s...not perfect yet.”  
  
“It will never be!” Aziraphale declared cheerily. “Isn’t that better though? Nothing in creation is perfect. Nothing is as we expect it to be. This is beautiful because you made it, my dear. I should very much like it if you left it as is so I might always enjoy it.”  
  
These words had a profoundly humbling effect of Crowley. Aziraphale couldn’t guess at the thoughts that were running through his head but a sensation of second hand satisfaction and...and _something else_ coursed through him.

  
Crowley was smiling a distinctly Crowley smile, slit yellow eyes focused on him. Actually, Crowley looked like Crowley as he had always known him, black wings and all. Aziraphale's tender heart flipped. This kind of open expression was rare and, therefore, precious.  
  
“Suppose I can’t deny you it, then,” Crowley intoned with a smirk. It seemed he was going to say more but at that very moment it all went pear shaped. The universe inverted, fissures spreading in the dark.  
  
There was a very real physical push against his very being that sent him tumbling, arse over tea kettle, back and back and back through space-  
  
-and off the side Crowley’s bed where he was laid. Still sound asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hardest part of writing is getting to the parts you want to write. Luckily, this is one. Don't forget to review, leave kudos, tell your mom, etc.


	3. Wrath Fell to Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 07/08- Fixed grammar, spelling, etc. Rewrote some clunkers and fixed a plot thread. The great correction of Aziraphale's name continues.

Tea. Aziraphale needed tea. Well, not in the strictest sense of the word but he needed to soothe his nerves before he made another attempt to draw his demonic friend out of his unnatural slumber. That had been...disturbing.  
  
At least he knew for sure now that whatever was afflicting Crowley was just that: an affliction. It wasn’t of Crowley’s own doing and, indeed, could be shaken out of it he found the crux of the nightmare and countered it. It was a puzzle. A twisted puzzle but still something he could solve if he kept his wits about him.

Crowley had called him clever not too long ago. He hoped his words were not misplaced.

Which side was this coming from? Hell seemed the obvious answer. They’d probably know how to manipulate and contort the demon in all kinds of sadistic ways. It was safe, as well. Why risk taking on a demon that could sit in a path of holy water and showed no compunctions in destroying one of their own? It would be much safer to sit back, take advantage of Crowley's favorite vice, and torture him when he was at his most vulnerable.   
  
Hm. Crowley had mentioned quite a few decades ago that he had received a commendation for his sleeping century. It would be on record that Crowley excelled in sloth when he wished. 

...Heaven could be at fault too, however. True, they had focused their ire on Aziraphale but an uppity demon running about ruining the Great Plan and 'corrupting' their angels would also be grounds for a good smiting. That it would hurt their equally uppity, Hell Fire resistant angel would be a pleasant bonus. A fully expected benefit.   
  
By the time he finished his tea he was no closer to a course of action. Though, he was nicely sated. Crowley, for reasons that Aziraphale dared not delve into at the moment, stocked his favorite tea. Crowley didn’t even drink tea often and, when he visited his former flat,  he hadn’t even had kitchen let alone a kettle or tea cups. Yet...here they were.  
  
Aziraphale stomach gave another strange twist. If this kept up it would be an all out knot soon.   
  
Time to get back at it. He could ask the demon about when he was awake.  
  
(He’d probably never ask him about it.)   
  
When he returned to the bed room the angel for Crowley just as he had left him: unconscious, unmoving, constantly dreaming. The only difference was that now he was tucked snugly under the comforter. It was silly, as Crowley was still fully clothed, but it made _Aziraphale_ feel better to know that he was at least comfortable.

The waves of emotions were still rolling off him, albeit less so. Perhaps his last foray into the confines of Crowley’s mind had actually done something. He hoped that was the case.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Aziraphale choked as the pungent scent of sulfur and the scorching heat invaded his airways. There was groaning and sobbing punctuated by the occasional scream.

Around him feathers and ash fell to the scorched ground like snow. Some were on fire, others were perfect as the day they were created. The ground was littered with them, the sky saturated. Far above there were dancing flames, barely seen from his lowly vantage point. Beyond that, stars, one burning better and brighter than all the rest.   
  
He knew what would happen next. This story was a familiar one, though the vista much different. The last time he was up there, with the holy flames, with the stars.

War was a maker of beast in not just men but the heavenly as well.

The Morning Star Fell, crashing at some spot on the horizon with such force that he struggled to stay on his feet despite vast the distance. This time he had the sense to close his eyes to blot out the blindingly light that had taken days for his vision to recover from back then.   
  
More Fell. Screaming in rage, in horror, in shock. A purge of On High. The world was beginning to close, a layer being built, bit by bit, high above. This was Her newest creation. An eternal prison. Hell.

He heard him then. Crowley, gasping for air, shrieking as he struggled from the river of sulfur. His black wings soaked to the very core and useless for flight no matter how hard he flapped and jumped, attempting to get lift. He fell to his knees, scraping them terribly, before rising again, stumbling and shambling, shouting all the way. “Wait! WAIT! Where are you going?! Don’t leave me here!”  
  
The sky closed up, leaving only rocks and heat. Aziraphale wanted to curl in on himself and cocoon in  the safety of his wings. It was too horrible. Unavoidable, yes, but unavoidable things were often the worst of all.

Crowley screamed and cursed then all at once fell as if bound by rope, arms and legs tight together. He hit the hardwood like a stack of bricks, scattering books.

 _Books?_ Aziraphale tore his eyes from his friend, taking stock of his surroundings once again. There had been a change. This was still hell but _not_ at the same time. The materials and composition were all wrong.  
  
Instead of smoldering feathers there were burning pages falling from on high. The sulfur and brimstone stench overridden by the scent of burning paper and molten leather. The sulfurous stalagmites had changed when he wasn’t looking into teetering, smoldering stacks of nameless books.   
  
Crowley was thrashing against his invisible bindings, wings tucked so close they were flush to him. The blackened feathers flattened flush to him, hardening into scales...then there were no legs but a tail-  
  
“ ** _Aziraphale!_** ” His own name being screamed so terriblysucked the breath from him. Crowley was screaming once again, his mouth all fangs and forked tongue. “ _Assssziraphale!_ I can’t-...you’re gone! I can’t find you! You’ve gone! _h’assssssssszzzziraphael! h’asssszira-!”_  
  
All that was left was the snake, fangs bared to the dark ceiling above them, striking as if it might bring all of heaven down to its level.

As a principality Aziraphale had all manner of experience in the evils of man and how to inspire the strength to counter them. He considered himself quite good at it, if not lax at times, which is why he allowed himself to indulge. A delicious meal, a rare edition, sitting a bit too close at times to demonic company, taking orders as more of a suggestion, etcetera, etcetera.   
  
Anger was a rarity, saved for only the most dire of situations. His patience and faith that all would be well if he did the right thing kept it bay. Blind rage was beyond him. Even in mortal men he found it hard to truly know what would restore them once they succumbed to such fits.   
  
Crowley, however much he liked to deny it to the angel, was an optimist. There was always a temper brimming just beneath the surface, fueling his humor and more pragmatic view points, but his ‘glass half full’ way of approaching himself and the world around him seemed to keep him standing up right.   
  
This was a wrath born from the lack of a silver lining. Black as the billowing smoke that was beginning to choke Aziraphale and overflowing with fear and heartbreak. It was primal and without rational thought, destructive to its very core and more volatile than nitroglycerin being transported by express freight.   
  
It was terrifying.

Or, rather, he felt it _should_ be. Instead he found himself bursting with compassion and sympathy. _“I lost my best friend.”_ At the time, with the end of the world looming and his lack of body, he could only offer the briefest of apologies and they had never truly revisited that moment in the weeks that followed. The shop was fine, Aziraphale was corporeal, and upper management was giving them both a wide berth.   
  
_“I lost my best friend.”_ His voice had broken, unusually hoarse as if he had screamed himself raw and never bothered to fix the damage. Oh! He hadn’t even looked like himself! Covered in soot and dried sweat, clothing rumpled and filthy….  He had rarely seen Crowley so disheveled in the six thousand years he had known him.   
  
Oh Crowley! _Oh dear, sweet Crowley!_

He was in motion before he consciously made the decision to go to him. The great snake tossed and coiled, hissing and striking, blind, utterly reptilian rage reflected in familiar yellow eyes.  He threw himself on the serpent without further hesitation, wrestling with it. He yelped as a fang found purchase but kept on it, holding tighter, putting his wings into it.   
  
“I know, my dear, I know. It wasn’t fair.” He found himself saying through grunts and pants, saying whatever he thought might soothe the demon. After six thousand years of companionship surely he knew the right combination of words somewhere in his heart.  “You were never abandoned, though, not truly! You did not go gentle into that good night. You raged, raged against the dying light. I’m right here. It’s quite alright! I’ll be here until you can see the dawn again.”

He kept talking, eyes screwed shut as it was all becoming too much. Too much fire, too much smoke, too much fury.  Concentrate on scales, concentrate and pulling him closer, concentrate only Crowley.

He kept talking.

His hands ran over smooth, searing hot scales in gentling motions. He hushed and soothed.

Keep talking. Hold closer.

He was in the midst of some Whitman and breathless reassurances when he realized he stroking feathers. That all was still. The air was thick and hot but lacked the acrid smoke of moments ago. Cautiously he opened his eyes.   
  
Staring up at him from his lap were bright yellow eyes, framed by an angular face. Clean and well groomed from his red hair down to the tips of snake skin shoes. Aziraphale could only stare back, suddenly mute after speaking at such great length.   
  
Around them was Eden. Wait. No. The stone ceiling was made of glass, as were the walls. A green house awash with lush plants, fed on anger but provided for with care. He barely noticed. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the demon looking up at him from his lap.   
  
Slender hands reached upwards, framing his face tentatively. Relief exploded in his chest and, for the first time in his long life Aziraphale wanted to give in and allow himself to fall into those welcoming hands, turn his face until his lips meant the pulse in Crowley’s wrist and-

“It’ssss all wrong, innit?” Crowley spoke finally, a residual hiss worming its way into his words. “Sssomething wrong is being done. We weren’t here a second ago. I wasss...elssssewhere.”  
  
Aziraphale seized on this moment of lucidity. “Yes! My dear, I’m afraid you are under some sort of psychic attack! This all exists in the confines of your mind.”  
  
Gentle fingers ghosted along his jawline. “Are you real, then?”  
  
“Do I often make valiant appearances in your sleeping hours?” The angel joked, shooting a grin his way.   
  
Crowley never answered, fingers stopping their journey all at once. Aziraphale laughed uncertainly. “I don’t suppose you have any answers, do you?” He pushed, trying to wave away his last question with a new one.

“There’s all kinds of demons that could do...thissss,” Crowley hissed thoughtfully. “Humans ssskilled in the occult assswell. And angelsss.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded along. He wasn’t saying anything that he had not already considered himself but it was nice to get Crowley’s opinion on matters. It helped him think. Between the two of them they could come to a solution. They were truly stronger together.   
  
Crowley went rigid in his arms. “Ah, hell. Thisss doessssn’t feel good.”  
  
Everything was breaking apart. The plants were wilting and fading to nothing, the floor itself collapsing in on itself. “Not again!” He groaned and held to Crowley tighter. “You can’t go without me! I’ll...I’ll follow!”  
  
Crowley once again, infuriatingly, said nothing. Instead he continued to gaze at him with a peculiar expression.  
  
Then he was pushing the angel away, falling back into the crumbling nothing.

This time when Aziraphale came to his senses he shouted out in frustration and very nearly pitched the clock radio on the nightstand across the room in a fit of anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliche? Maybe. We all eat that up, right? Not edited a lot so please forgive any weird shit. Don't forget kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc.


	4. Envious of All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 07/12: Fixed spelling/grammar/Aziraphales name. Also rewrote some bits and added others. Out of all the edits thus far this one was the most extensive as I didn't love the chapter the first time I wrote it. As always, if you see anything in need of fixing lemme know!

Aziraphale sat at Crowley's dining table, unnecessary reading glasses perched upon his nose, writing on a clean sheet of paper he’d found in the demon’s office.

 _Pride._ He wrote in his practiced script, taking a brief moment to appreciate the fine quality of the fountain pen he had found, before he continued with a detailed description of Crowley’s first nightmare.

 _Wrath._ Another description containing all that he could remember, including the feeling of something ‘other’ being present.  He hadn’t realized it until he had awoken but there had been a feeling of being watched, like an amoeba under a microscope.   
  
He hesitated a moment before writing out five more words, leaving ample room beside each in preparation for the future. _Greed, Envy, Gluttony, Lust, Sloth._

This was likely the path these dreams were taking, though he couldn’t fathom an order. Something out there was appealing to Crowley’s worst traits and abusing them, though to what end he still was not sure. To drag him back down? To torture him? Simply because they could?

The angel fought an urge to lay his head on the table and close his eyes. He didn’t sleep, it was never a habit he had picked up, yet he felt exhausted down to his very soul. Pulled thin like cellophane. It had only been a few hours since he arrived in Crowley’s new home but it felt like _days._   
  
Above him, in the bedroom, a fresh wave of feeling was building.   
  
If it was exhausting for him it had to be debilitating to dear Crowley. He massaged his temples, trying to ease the pressure the demons energy was causing, and pushed his own physical welfare to the back of his mind. At least it was contained to the house for the moment. He couldn’t imagine what kind of effect these forces would have on the unsuspecting humans outside.

He underlined the sins, tapped the paper, realized he was delaying the inevitable, then stood.

Time for another attempt.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It was getting easier to keep himself clear headed as he entered Crowley’s dreams. This time he had his wits and senses about him from the very start. He was prepared for all manner of horror.

He was not prepared to find himself sitting on their bench in Saint James Park. Blue skies stretched overhead and there was a sweet breeze that carried the scent of flowers. The ducks were splashing happily in the water, not far off, as children tossed bread in their direction with glee.   
  
Crowley was in his usual spot, legs akimbo and looking like he was attempting to melt through the slats, watching the passing activities of mortals with hidden eyes.  
  
Aziraphale smiled in relief. This was familiar. He could handle this. “Lovely day,” he started, pleasantly, hoping to gauge just how aware the demon was of the reality of the situation.  
  
There was a twitch at the corner of Crowley’s lips. “Suppose it is. Heard they have it better southwards. Bastards.”  
  
That was an...odd comment. Aziraphale ploughed onward with relentless optimism. “Some sun is better than none, yes?”   
  
“Hmph,” and a shift in the demons posture was all he got in return.  
  
The angel was starting to get an off feeling in his stomach again. “Uhm...did you fancy some lunch?” He asked brightly. Crowley never refused a lunch, even when he didn't feel like eating. He always seemed content to just have Aziraphale's company which, if he was honest, was really quite flattering.  
  
“What’s the point?” Crowley huffed softly, looking anywhere but the angel at his side. “We don’t need food. We don’t get hungry. We’ll never have the same enjoyment as they do. Lucky, blessed arseholes.”

Ah. Envy it was, then.   
  
“Why don’t you go back to fawning over your bloody books?” Crowley continued with a bitterness Aziraphale only heard when the demon had been drinking copious amounts of tequila. “That’s where you really want to be.”  
  
It took a lot for Aziraphale to not snap back at the accusation. It would be all too easy to fall into their familiar patterns of conversation, given the set decorating, and start trading gentle barbs with the man. Except he knew there was no good nature hidden in the demons words.

He was envious of the time Aziraphale spent fussing about his shop. It was baffling to the angel, seeing as Crowley was welcome to join him when ever he liked but...but there may have been an uncomfortable truth in this perception. He did tend to get wrapped up between the stacks to the point of being a reprehensible host.   
  
Aziraphale took breath. Kindness. Kindness was the remedy to Envy.   
  
Beside him Crowley was beginning to work himself up into a real fit, a flickering of reignited wrath threatening to flare into something very real. “Where are those kids parents?” He was asking without giving Aziraphale a chance to respond, gesticulating wildly towards the happy little ones and their ducks. “Bloody fools. Don’t they know some wicked blighter could come and snatch them away at any minute? Kids are miracle and they just left them there! I swear, people don’t deserve half of what they got. _I_ could do it better.”

The ground swallowed the children up like a tasty morsel, leaving the echo of their joy and eliciting a disturbed shout from the angel. Oh, this was _exactly_ the opposite of good!   


“And look at those plants!” Crowley was on a roll, standing suddenly and sauntering over to a meticulously maintained flower bed. They wilted under Crowley’s gaze, their petals shriveling. “They hire some gardener, pay him with the people’s taxes, and he lets insects chew up the flowers! The fucker has the easiest job on the planet and he can’t even _DO IT RIGHT._ ”  
  
Aziraphael followed him, hands outstretched, placating, trying to get a word in edgewise but unable.Never had he known Crowley to be envious of the world around him. Perhaps it was something he kept close to his chest or refused to acknowledge.   
  
“And your lot! They have _all_ eternity and _all_ of God’s favor and protection and, what? They _still_ want to stomp on my sort? Don’t they have enough already?!” Crowley snarled up at blue-grey sky, the beginning of fangs forming at his canines. “And mine are fucking oblivious to how bloody _fantastic_ it can be up here! They lost all their vigor in the Fall! Now they're just the same as angels, marching about, blindly following orders! Imagine being able to _not know_ and _not care_ and just do your job without asking fifty million questions!”   
  
Envy of Gods love, envy of ignorance, envy of humans doing what they want, envy of all the things he desired but believed were just out of his reach.

 _“Why are you here, Aziraphale?!_ Didn’t I tell you get on?” Crowley huffed and paced, the blue gone from the sky. Everything was dull, grey, and miserable, just like his foul mood. Everything in the universe was worth something and he had no place with any of it.   
  
Aziraphale smiled.   
  
“I want to be here. I’ve devoted this whole day to you,” he informed him cheerily. It wasn’t exactly a lie. His day so far had been centered around Crowley and there was no where else he wanted to be. He'd be at his side until all this was behind them.

This seemed to throw the demon off. “Yeh?” He shifted a bit, looking elsewhere. “Well...you needn’t have done that.”

Aziraphale approached and gave him a firm, playful poke on the forehead. “How hard it must be, to want so much and ask for so little in return. If you need my attention you _must_ say so. You can do nothing about the children or the plants or Heaven and Hell...but you _can_ about me, yes? I’m right here. I always will be.”  
  
Crowley’s eyebrows lifted high above his sunglasses. “You want to be here?” He was stammering just a little bit, his cool exterior folding up like crumpled paper. Aziraphale didn't need to see his eyes to know there would be be wonder and hope growing there.   
  
“Why, yes!” Aziraphale laughed and smiled, delighting in his own admission, freed by it. Of course he wanted to be here! Didn’t Crowley _know_ that? Hadn’t six thousand years of friendship in defiance of the natural order of things taught him anything? “If I didn’t want to be I would have left when they called me back all those years ago.”

  
“Why?” He sounded like he was asking after some secret, hope now fully evident in his tone, a feeling of...of... _something_ in his aura. He was suddenly close, the park had stopped existing. All his focus was on Aziraphale. They were the only two beings in the entirety of the world.  
  
“Why?” The angel repeated, brow furrowing. Actually, why did they always seek each other out? Why did they risk their lives to save the world? For humanity's sake, to be sure, but...but Crowley was willing to leave it all behind as long as Aziraphale came with him.   
  
He had been tempted to accept. Even if the world ended as long as he and Crowley weren’t forced to kill each other all would be well. It was a selfish thought he had banished the very moment it had occurred. 

“I...I suppose that a great many things are better as long as you’re at my side. Whether it be sorting books, having a meal, or feeding ducks.” His voice had lost it strength and a blush was rising in his cheeks. He was on teetering on the precipice of some great discovery about himself, so very close to tipping into something frightening and invigorating. “You’re so willing to go out of your way for me. I don’t believe I’ve ever done as much for you. I...I envy your ability to know exactly where you want to be, even while others do not.”  
  
Crowley was so close. Why did he need to be so close?! He could feel his breath on his face, hot and strangely sweet. “Angel….” He started, voice cracking with unspoken emotion, all the wrath and envy fading from him. Everything he ever wanted was standing directly in front of him, Aziraphale realized...and promptly began to panic. Did this mean that Crowley was-?!

 ** _"Again?”_** It wasn’t Crowley’s voice. This voice drawled like an American sheriff's, with an uncomfortable amount of sleazy warmth, and sounded more than a little irritated with them both. **_“I wish you’d stop interrupting. It makes everything so much harder.”_** ** _  
_**  
Both Crowley and Aziraphale jumped, looking about at the encroaching darkness for the source of the voice.

It was hard to focus with Crowley’s hand wrapped securely about his arm like that. When had it gotten there, anyways? 

 _ **"Wait your turn, foolish angel. Keep this up and I’ll have to divert myself. That would make me cranky. You don’t want that.”**_ ** _  
_**  
Crowley was in motion then, bringing himself between the angel and the darkness, and hissing in alarm. “I know that voissssce! Aziraphale! You need-!”  
  
Whatever he needed he never found out. A noise like a vuvuzela giving birth to a fog horn during a traffic jam shook the air, blotting out the demons voice and scattering their thoughts to the wind.   
  
When he was returned to the bed room this time he found himself basically laying on top of the demon, face in his chest, in a kind of loose cuddle. His head and ears were still ringing with a very real pain and something alarming hot was running down the sides of his face. He mopped at it hurriedly, already thinking about plunging back in-  
  
His hand came away red.  
  
Aziraphael’s ears were bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Envy is a bitch to write for without feeling like you're being heavy handed.


	5. Gluttony and Greed are the Same Coin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 07/12: Grammar/spelling/etc. Rewrote some passages, fixed others for clarity, that kind of thing.

“There is no use in being upset,” they said, straightening the tea spoon to their right. Their tea remained untouched, ordered only to maintain appearances. Such things were important. “You were told he was clever. They both are.”  
  
Their temporary ally bristled from across the table, knocking its silverware astray. “It isn’t your handiwork that gunna be picked apart now, is it? I was pulled out of my nap to do this and now some uppity Principality and the Snake of Eden are making a mockery of me!”   
  
“Surely you jest. My work will be critiqued as well. If I fail in this I shall loose millennia of respect and quite possibly my ranking.” They were terse and unyielding, same as always. “If you had only handed the demon over to me when I first requested it we would have this solved now.”  
  
“I don’t make those choices. Lord  _BuzzingBulb_ made the call. Besides, you didn’t turn the angel over to us, either.”

“He is ours. No servant of the Almighty will suffer the tortures of the Pit.”   
  
“Afraid we’d do it better, huh?” It grinned with sharp teeth.  
  
“I see seven thousand years has done nothing for your grace or charm.” Yet their tiny smile, ruthless and delighted, told a different story.   
  
“Y’know what, _Urine_? Likewise.”  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At least he wasn’t deaf. Rattled at having bled for the first time in a tortoises age but his hearing was intact. The bleeding was likely a psychosomatic response. Aziraphale had several books on the subject back at the shop. He briefly considered making the trip to get them or miracling them over….  
  
He decided against it. One would require leaving his dear Crowley’s side while the other might attract unwanted attention.   
  
Instead he found himself in Crowley’s office, looking for...something. _Anything._ A book, a file, a giant Post It note with ‘THE NAME OF THE ATTACKER IS___’ scrawled across it. Any clue that might aid him in his quest. 

Anything to distract him from the fact he was now being physically harmed by these intrusions. What would happen if he was severely injured in such an encounter?

Heaven above, what would happen to Crowley if _he_ was killed while dreaming?!

It was all too alarming. All too distressing. Aziraphale thought he might be having an anxiety attack as he snatched up Crowley’s mobile telephone in a desperate bid for some kind of useful information and swiped in the way he always saw him do-

He was not expecting to come face to face with his own smiling visage. It was from their last dinner together in that new Gordon Ramsay location and he had been four glasses of fine port in the bag. He had been in the middle of an excellent, impassioned analysis of the works of T.S. Elliot when the sound of a camera caught him off guard, completely derailing his train of thought.

He distinctly remembered Crowley looking surprised and extremely embarrassed. _“Ah. Sorry. Was trying to send a text. Continue.”_ Aziraphale hadn't seen fit to question it at the time.

This photo was carefully taken, no sign of blur or ‘accident’ anywhere. In fact, it was so perfectly taken it was currently the background of Crowley's main screen. 

Aziraphale placed the device back where he found it, face down, his fingers lingering on the cool material for a moment before he retracted his hand. He squared his shoulders, throwing his chest out determinedly, and turned smartly on his heel, marching from the room.   
  
He’d try again.

And again after that.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A bird was singing on a windowsill. It’s feathers were white as the driven snow, its body puffed and happy. It sang loud and sweetly, soft and soothingly. At times it tittered, as if chatting with the world about it. Other times it preened and tilted its head in a way the suggested it was curious about the world around it. It was made to give love and be loved from afar.   
  
Aziraphale found himself immediately fond of the creature. Crowley, sprawled out on an uncomfortable looking, ultra modern sofa, seemed equally charmed. His narrow, slitted pupils were focused solely on the dear animal, hanging on its every movement.  

The angel took advantage of this peaceful moment to look around. This looked a bit like a smaller version of Crowley’s former flat but the angles were all off. Non-euclidean, is how Lovecraft would have described it. Aziraphale thought it was all rather off putting.

The space was over stuffed with items of various types and ages. Records, art, jewelry, clothing, that strangely familiar eagle statue Crowley never talked about, the wrestling angels. It was far too much for him to fully take inventory of. There was barely room for the angel to sidle through as made his way to the demon. 

A frantic call of “WAIT!” startled him and he knocked into a particularly uneven pile of CD’s as he jumped, sending them scattering. If Crowley noticed he gave no indication. Instead he had his body half hanging out the window. The bird was nowhere in sight but could be heard singing faintly.   
  
A moment later Crowley was back in, clutching the window frame tightly, yellow eyes darting around, and completely passing Aziraphale over. They alighted on a gilded cage that the angel was fairly certain had not been there before. Crowley pushed from the frame dramatically and the cage was promptly snatched up.

Seed and wine were mixed together in a dish and placed on the sill. Crowley waited with a deadly patience the angel rarely saw in him.

Now, Aziraphale was no stranger to emotion. Many angels were removed from feeling anything but love for God but he considered himself an exceptionally joyous ethereal entity that happened to delight in the finer things that man had invented to pass the time. He was full of love for all mankind and the creatures of the earth. 

Perhaps that’s why he felt a flash of indignation when Crowley seized the cage and baited the bird. After all, one could still hear the feathered creature singing still yet the demon seemed to want it all to himself.   
  
This was beyond greed. This was gluttony as well, his over indulgence evidenced by the way the demon seemed to be unable to relax without that song being for him and him alone. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. It was no use getting upset. It wasn’t real. It was a dream, wrought with symbolism. He just needed to parse it out and-

There was a raw hiss, a clatter of metal, and the startled squawk of a bird. His eyes flew open in time enough to see the great serpent coiling it body around the cage, bending the bars, and resting its head on top. Inside the bird continued to sing, instantly oblivious to what was happening. Tighter and tighter, the bars bent in further, snapping in places, piercing clear through coal black scales. The serpent’s need to have the ignorant creature threatening to destroy them both.   
  
Indignation became a righteous anger and blind panic. It was wholly unfamiliar to Aziraphale. Not even when Satan had risen from the ground had he felt like this. Even the War on High hadn't sparked such righteousness. It was like something had crawled under his skin and was whispering directly in his brain. ‘Greedy. Gluttonous fiend. Who is he to ask nothing and expect so much?’

Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the fire poker until it was already tightly gripped in his fist. Heavy. Made of iron. Iron was good. Humans have been using iron for such things since time immemorial.

Iron could _smite._

It swung like a sword down on the snake, spilling blood, knocking it clear from the cage.  
  
The empty cage. 

He fluffed his wings in agitation, not questioning when he had summoned them. His stomach was twisting in a nauseating way, his chest so tight he could barely breathe, blood rushing in his ears.

There was no snake. Not any more. There was only Crowley, all thin limbs and wide yellow eyes, touching the wound at his hairline and bringing his hand away to survey the blood he found there. He looked up at him slowly, yellow meeting blue. 

Horror washed over the angel. The poker was dropped with a clatter that was deafening in the shocked silence. 

“C-Crowley!” He stammered, throat tight as his chest. “Oh! My dear! Oh Crowley! I didn’t mean-!”  
  
The injured man looked away, a glum kind of smile on his face. “Sss’okay. Don’t you hear them laughing, angel?”  
  
It was hard to hear anything beyond the rush of adrenaline and the hammering of his heart...but if he really tried he could _feel_ the cruelty fueled mirth.  Satisfaction was coming from elsewhere. 

He had a distinct feeling that the game had changed. 

“Angel.” It wasn’t soft or a question. It was a demand for attention. The demon looked up at him with a grace that his kind were not supposed to be capable of. There was an openness and _something_ else present, whatever feelings of greed and gluttony having passed after a good smack on the noggin. He rose to his feet, arms open, holding the angels gaze captive with his own. “I forgive you.”  
  
Never, not once in his eternal life, had Aziraphale felt the need to be forgiven by anyone else but the Almighty.   
  
The relief he felt was unimaginable.

The guilt was crushing.

“You shouldn’t,” he found himself whispering, strength having left him. “I was meant to help and...oh! Oh! You shouldn’t!”  
  
Crowley was reaching to him, alarm coating his features. “Angel! Aziraphale! WAIT!”   
  
It was too late.  
  
Aziraphale came to himself next to Crowley’s bed, his heart still threatening to break from his chest at any moment. Before him, the demon had blood running from his hairline, leaving a dark, wet spot on clean, black sheets.

He couldn’t help what came next. He sank to his knees, shaking all over, and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's swing up from the lowest point, yeh? This IS the lowest point. 
> 
> Once again, this is unedited. I'd drive myself crazy if I picked it over again and then you'd never see it. Perhaps when all is said an done I'll give it a good going over.


	6. Not quite Lust

Anathema Device, witch, was perplexed. What had started out as a simple scrying session was turning into a lesson in confusion and alarm. 

 

Her prized, crystal pendulum kept swinging up and sharply to the right, some time pulling the chain completely horizontal. At times it would drop back and hang limply only to pull back up moments later. 

 

It was only after she had put the crystal down and it had pulled itself into her far right wall hard enough to embed itself there that she decided that, maybe, this needed to be investigated. 

 

“Newt? Can Dick get us to London  _ without _ killing us? I believe there’s a problem.” 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Technically, Angels didn’t pray. They were born from Gods very essence and held a comparatively infinitesimal amount of power. They knew Her face and voice. Essentially, God was viewed as some great big parent prone to long stretches of absenteeism. 

 

Aziraphael felt sure that if Crowley were to wake up and fin him pray in his house he’s pitch a fit to end all fits. That didn’t stop him though. 

 

“Please,” he spoke to the ceiling, imagining he was speaking directly to the sky. Rationally he knew that God was omniscient and omnipresent and no more up above than She was in, say, the little plant-gift that had been forgotten on the nightstand. Most prayers tended to be directed heaven wards, though, so he did the same. “Please. I know he’s beyond you but...I’m not. Am I? Please just give me a little more strength. Or! Or if you could just make this whole mess stop it would be very much appreciate it!”  
  
He paused. “I promise no more fancy dinners at the Ritz for at least fifty years!”  
  
Silence. 

 

“...one hundred years?” He murmured softly, with fading hope. No response. He hadn’t truly expected it. He was but one angel with, at times, naughty tendencies. She had a whole multiverse in the corner of Her eye. He could not be heard over the din. 

 

He had taken care cleaning the blood for Crowleys impassive, sleeping face. There was no wound but...but he fancied he could still see one, lying just beneath the physical form. 

 

During the Revolution Azirphael had been given a flaming sword. He had singed wings and marred heavenly bodies with all the pleasure of a child playing Knights and Dragons with their friends. A game, of sorts, to prove who was right. He was doing good work. It was compassion. 

Then he was assigned to the Eastern Gate and had the very startling realization that might doesn't make right. Shortly after that he found what true compassion was: giving of yourself to those in need and expecting little in return. 

 

So he gave away his sword. 

 

His legs were getting stiff so he forced himself up to his feet, only to sit on the edge of the bed, gazing at Crowley. 

 

...Crowley gave of himself quite often. More often than Aziraphael did. 

 

He thought of the bird on the window sill, always flitting away to sing to others.

 

“When this is finished,” he murmured to the sleeping body, “I’ll apologize until the very end. I’ll give a lot more. I’ll give in ways that will embarrass and delight you. I’ll never say why...but we’ll both know, won’t we? Then, some day, one of us will break and find the words. You do know what I mean, yes?” 

 

Once again there was no answer from on high or at his side. 

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

From the get go Aziraphael knew which sin he would be dealing with. The nightclub full of sweating, dancing, writhing bodies was clue enough. The air tasted salty with sweat and the music was ear splitting.  
  
A nice place for Lust, he supposed. 

 

This was by far the most crowded dream thus far. He could barely breathe, bodies were packed so tight around him. It didn’t help that he could barely see as a fog machine was doing its job a little too well and there seemed to be some kind of strobe light effect flicking in time with the tempo of the music. Clearly, Crowley didn’t hang out with epileptics much. 

 

Knowing his friends habits, he made for the neon lights of the bar. There he found him, sunglasses perched atop his nose, a crooked smirk lining his lips, a nasty gash at his hairline, his face flushed with copious amounts of alcohol.

 

His hand firmly planted on some pretty young woman’s thigh. 

 

The angel brought up short. Right. Okay. Lust. He was no prude, that was an entirely human invention much like virginity and marriage. Sex was a beautiful thing and an entirely normal, animal behavior. A pleasant indulgence like creme brulee or a book with an uncracked binding.

 

...but Crowley’s thin fingers had their tips just beneath her hemline, drawing circles there. The girl was giggling.   
  
Aziraphael suddenly felt like he wanted to dive over the bar an polish off a full bottle of vodka. Straight. That burn would be much more preferable than the one in his chest. 

 

How, exactly, was he to proceed here without being a complete hypocrite? Never, not once in his work as a Principality, had he been one for instilling chastity. He didn’t even know where to start. The closest he ever got was thwarting the very demon in front of him, preventing him from beguiling a pleasant nun with nigh unshakeable faith. 

 

...and that had been less a thwarting and more of a “ _ I can get us into the monastery brewery if you mind yourself” _ and “ _ No, the priest didn’t consecrate it correctly _ ” and a full twelve hourse of being drunk in the catacombs making fun of the names of those on the plaques they found there. 

 

His thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his. Crowley was grinning, drunkenly, his female companion left at the bar and looking quite insulted. “Angel!” Slurred the demon, practically falling into him. “Fancy you being here! C’mon! I’ll get you something off the VIP menu.”  
  
Aziraphael blinked, more than a little stunned. “Crowley I’m not here to drink. I’m here-”  
  
“I know why your here,” Crowley cut him off with a flurigh of his hand. “Your here because it’s hopping! Had a little energy to get out, yeh?”  
  
Under different circumstances Aziraphael would have pointed out that this was not his ‘scene’ at all. If he wanted to go to a bar he’d stick with a quiet pub where he could indulge in pleasant conversation and a glass of wine. This was all too loud and claustrophobic.   
  
“Crowley, my dear, please! I need-” 

 

Once again he found himself cutoff. Crowley’s body was tight to his in this space, moving with the music even as the angel stayed stiff, his arms about his shoulders as if they were about to slow dance like teenagers at prom. 

 

“I know _exactly_ what you need,” he purred, grin getting more crooked by the second. “No one comes here for salvation, y’know. They come here because they want alcohol and a warm body pressed against their own without all the messy bits.”  
  
“It looked like you were doing quite well with finding a warm body.” The words were out before Aziraphael even had the chance to reconsider them. He managed to look suitably horrified. “What I meant was-! Your lady friend she-”  
  
“Will be fine. She had this lovely friend, you know? The kind that sticks with through thick and thin. She’s in the bathroom.” He leaned in and stage whispered, his breath hot on the angels ear. “They have a thing for each other. I was just...revving the engines.”  
  
“Revving the engines?” He repeated the euphemism dumbly. “Ah...you...you weren’t going to…?”  
  
“With you here?” He looked at him, aghast. “Why would I ever need that when you’re right here?!”  
  
“I hit you!” Aziraphael blurted, remembering the last dream even as this one was becoming all too real. “I hit you with iron!”  
  
Crowley looked at him then, another peculiar, unplaceable look on his face. Then he was pressing even closer, embracing him, all sense of decorum gone. There was a hand in his hair that made him shiver, lips brushing his neck, hot breath at his ear-

 

“Are you real?” He could barely hear the question over the cacophony of music and the beating of his own heart. He was dizzy. 

 

“I...yes. I am. I came to help you,” he answered truthfully. “...am I often here with you?” 

 

Crowley didn’t answer his question. “It’s really been you? Each time? For real?”

 

“Yes?” What else could he say. 

 

The demon pulled back...and back. There was a proper distance between them now. Aziraphael didn’t have time to mourn the loss...but he felt it. Oh goodness how he felt it. He had to speak and speak fast. “Listen carefully, you won’t wake up. You’ve been having these dreams based around-uhm-the cardinal sins and...and I think something is out to drive you mad or fracture you spiritually! I mean, more so than a demon already is! I’ve been trying all day-”  
  
“Aziraphael.” Crowley levelled him with a determined look, ever clever and quick to catch on. “What if it’s destroying you as well?”  
  
The angel shook his head hastily. “Never mind that! We must plan while you are a bit lucid-”  
  
“I can handle it,” Crowley huffed, squaring his shoulders. 

“You must certainly cannot!” Aziraphael countered haughtily. “We’ll worry about me later! Right now I need you to tell me if you’ve noticed anything else off about these dreams. Anything!”  
  
Crowley made a wounded noise, biting back an observation, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested ‘well yes but you don’t want to hear it’, and looked around. “Ah...well...it’s not usually a place like this. It usually smaller. Not so many bodies. Uhm...and...and we have a private table?”  
  
Aziraphael tilted his head. “I’m sorry, ‘we?’ Who’s ‘we?’”   
  
“Well...me and you, right?” He was looking steadfastly away, anywhere but Aziraphael. “You’re just about the only thing here that’s the same…’cept your not drunk as you normally are.”  
  
For a moment, Aziraphael was a bit lost. He swallowed thickly. “And..uhm..anything else?”  
  
Crowley continued to survey the world around him before he went rigid. “Huh. Uriel and Belphagor haven’t been in my dreams before.”

 

No sooner had he said than Aziraphael saw them as well, sitting at a table, apart from all. Uriel looking just as stiff and unyielding as ever...and Belphagor just looking like the slmy mess they tended to be. Both were watching them.

 

Both realized they were being watched as well.   
  
Crowley was catching on faster and faster, the drunkeness of the dream passing into run of the mill confusion. Then anger. “Bloody fucking Belphagor!”  
  
“Uriel,” breathed Azirphael, rubbing his midsection in memory. Before the not-the-end-of-the-world they had come to him and delivered to him quite the punch to the gut. Uriel, full of righteousness. Uriel, pitiless as any demon, guardian of the North gate, watcher of thunder and terror, angel of repentance. “Oh goodness. _We might be fucked._ ”  
  
Crowley’s moved in closer to Aziraphaels side, his eyes never straying from Belphagor. “Fucked five ways from Sunday,” he hissed, poison on his tongue. 

 

When their hands found each other they didn’t shy away. Instead they interlaced and gripped tight. 

  
Their side against... _ them.  _   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, folks.


	7. He Falls

“A.Z. Fell.” Newton read the sign out loud, head tilting to the side. “I wonder what the ‘A’ stands for. Or the Z.”  
  
Anathema was trying to prevent passers by from noticing she had a small crystal pulling her around like a tiny bloodhound. “Angel Zat Fell?” She said with a shrug and a little smile. “Though he said that was the others ones deal.” She looked at the closed sign and the complicated hours with passing curiosity. So, he really dis own a bookshop. She thought he had been joking when they spoke after they averted the apocalypse. 

 

Who ever heard of an angel running a bookshop? Besides, how could her book end up in such charred, deplorable condition if he was truly a ‘purveyor of fine books’ as he said?

 

“Another Zebra Fell,” Newt murmured with a sly, small smile. “The ‘the other one’ was a demon, right? The one that-uhm-insinuated that I was confused about what a witch hunter actually did…?”  
  
“Arrogant Zeal Fell,” she quipped back quickly before continuing on as if she never said anything at all. “That’s the one. The one with the eyes.” 

 

Her crystal pulled insistent down the sidewalk and she attempted to cover it with her sleeve. It was vibrating with energy, becoming hard to control. They were close to something.   
  
Newton was beginning to struggle with ‘Z’ words. “Angry...Zombies! Fell,” he was finally able to shoot back. “Riiight. Mick Jagger!” 

 

“Yes! God, it was bothering me who he moved like-ah hell,” she huffed suddenly. She had lost competition of weird words and initial guessing. 

 

In her hand the chain was getting hot.

 

_ So close. _

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Double date with Belphagor and Uriel,” Crowley groaned as he swung himself into a chair in front of the former. “Oh the places we go in a dream scape.” 

 

“Date?” Uriel and Aziraphael said at the same time before exchanging a rather contemptuous look. 

 

The demons seemed unaffected by this brief exchange of glares. Glaring was an art form where they came from and two angels trying to out glare each other was more comical than anything. Belphagor produced a stupidly large cigar from somewhere and lit it with a flick of an oozing finger. “Must say, Crawley, I was up set when they woke me up to not fight in the end of the world but to torture you. Was always kinda impressed by you, ya feel? That sleeping bit you pulled? Fantastic work. Did the heart good to see it.”  
  
“It’s Crowley,” the demon in question corrected with a snarl. “So it really is torture, huh? Couldn’t leave well enough alone after my holy water demonstration so you came for my mind.”  
  
“Amongst other things,” Belphagor shrugged and took a long pull from its cigar. Sharp, acidic green eyes studied him intently. “Though I would love to see a repeat of that bathtub incident.”

 

“As would I,” Uriel agreed cooly, their eyes never drifting from where Aziraphael was standing. “Gabriel will not approve it, though.”  
  
Aziraphael remained rigid. They knew. Or they suspected. Either way something had tipped them off about the deception...or maybe this was just Uriel being Uriel. “He approved this, then?”  
  
Uriel didn’t smile but there was a pleasant note in that eerily even voice. “I am taking initiative.”  
  
That was a no, then. 

 

Crowley was bristling, a forked tongue itching to display itself and hiss in alarm and irritation. “How wonderful it is to see heaven and hell working so closely together.”  
  
“Is it not?” Uriel hummed, eyes still on Aziraphael, as if even looking Crowley disgusted them. “Belphagor and I have known each other since the dawn of time. It makes sense for us to work together.”  
  
“Aw, Urine!” Belphagor grinned, rotten green liquid pouring down its face. “I knew ya missed me!”  
  
Surprisingly, Uriel did not reprimand the foul creature for the misuse of their name. Interesting. Aziraphael suddenly found himself watching them with a renewed interest.

 

“I was hoping to deal with you personally, Aziraphael,” Uriel continued as if the demon to their right hadn’t just openly fawned over them. “How unfortunate that you chose to insert yourself in this situation. After the demon Crawley-”  
  
“Crowley,” Azirphael interuppted curtly, earning a nod of approval from the man in question.   
  


“-Crawley was well and truly destroyed mentally I would have gladly granted you repentance.” 

 

“How kind,” Aziraphael said dryly. 

 

“Now, however,” Uriel leveled him with a look, daring him to interrupt again, “now, upon seeing your conduct in this space I have made a decision on behalf of the Almighty.”   
  


Belphagor clenched its cigar between teeth as yellow and sharp as citrine, standing from its dissolving seat. Crowley did the same, knocking over his chair with a clatter, tension lining his every muscle and impedding his normally loose movements. 

 

“Honestly, I don’t know why you weren’t Felled in the first place,” Uriel commented passively, never moving from their seat, never taking their eyes from their fellow angel. “You caused a great amount of trouble, yes. You flagrantly consorted with enemy, that as well...but you are quite the naughty angel, are you not? Sullying your celestial temple with earthly temptations.”  
  
Belphagor didn’t bother to round the table, opting to instead ooze through it, eating away at its very structure. Around them the humans of Crowleys dream were melting together in a similar mass.   
  
Crowley stepped between them. “Belphagor. C’mon. Let’s take a minute-”  
  
“You are a hedonist, Aziraphale,” Uriel noted as if they were commenting on the weather. “Therefore, deserving of further punishment.”   
  
Aziraphael stepped back in alarm only to plunge knee deep in that creeping ooze, sending him crashing off balance and flailing about in it. “You can’t do this! Not with out approval!”  
  
“It is not like it is a true Fall, Aziraphael,” Uriel hummed, almost mockingly. “Nothing is physically happening. If what happens inside effects the out? Well, that is truly unfortunate and to be fully expected of a ruthless demon.”  
  
“Oh Urine,” Belphagor groaned in pleasure. “The things ya say. Satan how I would have loved to make a slave of you at the End.”  
  
Crowley was gripping his angel, pulling him from the muck. “Stop this! You aren’t even done with me! Finish your plan! Destroy me and allow him repentance!” 

 

“No!” Aziraphael cut through his own surmounting terror. He looked up at Uriel with frantic, wide eyes as the slime closed around his shoulders. “What will Gabrielle say?! What will SHE say?!”

  
Uriel regarded him impassively. “Nothing. They shall never know.”  
  
Crowley was screaming all kinds of profanity and vile vows as the angel was engulfed into thick, smothering, blackness.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tis a short one. An interlude? Something to tie things together for the next.


	8. Sloth in Soho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day? Yes my lovelies. I couldn't leave you hanging on an interlude, now, could I?

The witch and ex-witch hunter had no idea they had arrived at their destination. How could such a quaint little house be the source of so much agitation? Yet Anathema could see the roiling, black aura that gripping the lot and the crystal was pulling so hard that Newton had to hold on with her lest it go sailing right through the siding and into the home.   
  
“I do believe I can feel that,” noted Newton softly, unease plain on his face. Anathema wasn’t surprised. It seemed many of the people passing could, whether they realized it or not, and were crossing the road or hurrying past in order to avoid the wretched energy that was being put out into the world. 

 

Her hand was on the gate when the angry, half mad screaming started. It rattled the windows and curdled the couples blood. The aura she was seeing was being combated by something red and fueled by rage and frustration. 

 

The crystal exploded. 

 

In the next instant she was flying up the path way and, remembering herself, knocking with a great amount of force as her boyfriend fretted behind her, never telling her to stop but concerned all the same. He was good like that. He knew when she had her mind set to something.   
  
It took a lot more knocking for someone to finally throw open the door so hard that it was surprising it didn’t come off the hinges. She knew the face from their few, brief meetings. The demon man with the eyes.

 

There very yellow eyes whose pupils were so shrunk with rage that they were barely even there. 

 

“What?!” He yelled and she was sure she could see pointed teeth. “What do you want?!”  
  
Never one to just let herself be screamed at Anathema dug in heels and fixed the disheveled demon with a look that could crumble mountains. “Mr. Crowley?” She asked curtly. 

 

The demon looked between the two of them with narrowed eyes. “Witch. Witch fucker.”

 

Newton made a scandalized noise behind her.

 

“I think you might be having an issue, yes?” She asked, pushing past him without an invite. She had a feeling formalities would be wasted given the fact that this ‘man’ seemed ready to raze the entirety of London.   
  
Crowley, mollified by her boldness, followed her, leaving the door open so her bewildered mate could follow if he wished. “What gave it away?” He snapped, irritated and moving like he might strike out at any moment.   
  
“Everything,” Anathema answered cryptically, looking around the home curiously. It was trendy but frightfully normal. Part of her had expected infernal symbols and traces of sacrifice. Instead there were trembling, lush plants and an impressively large record collection. “How about you tell me all about it?” 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Crowley had stopped his screaming and found himself giving a confused, half mad sounding recounting of the failed punishments of heaven and hell, his dreams, of Belphagor, of Uriel...of Aziraphael what was slumped and unresponsive next to his bed upstairs. Their places had been switched and he was beside himself, unable to focus long enough to get a strong connection going and plunge in as the angel had done for him.

 

It didn’t help that Aziraphaels aura was locked tighter than Fort Knox. He didn’t know if that was their adversaries doing or if his angel had done it unconsciously but it certainly made things difficult. Of course it would be difficult. Aziraphael made everything more difficult than it need be. Bastard. 

 

Beautiful, good hearted, soft, noble bastard. 

 

The Witch Fucker was aiming to make tea in his kitchen and he paused long enough to hiss at him about using the wrong tea. That tea was reserved for one guest and one alone. 

 

He must have used a little too much of his demon voice because the next thing he was doing was hissing at him for breaking the blue tartan tea cup he had special ordered. 

 

The Witch, for her part, had been listening carefully, staring off into the middle distance as she absorbed all the information. Crowley decided he liked her well enough. She seemed to have a good grip on herself and he could appreciate how unflappable she was in the face of occult forced beyond mortal understanding.

 

Finally, she sighed, removed her glasses, and rubbed her temples. “I never thought angels could be petty.”  
  
Crowley snorted. “Believe me, they can and are.”

 

“Shouldn’t they be...benevolent?” Her boyfriend dared to speak, earning a glare from the demon. He went pack to sweeping up bit of broken china. Crowley chose to not answer such a stupid observation. He thought their actions spoke well enough to how benevolent holy things could be. 

 

As far as he was concerned there was only one good one out of the lot and he was currently upstairs yet just beyond Crowley’s reach.   
  
“It sounded like they were exploiting your own nature to destroy you from the inside out,” Anathema hummed, more to herself than to the room. She placed her glasses back on her nose and looked at the fuming demon. “Will they be able to that with an angel? Do they even have anything to...exploit?” 

 

Crowley snorted again and rolled his eyes. “Aziraphael beats to his own drum. Has as long as I’ve known him. Oh, he always does right by others and is made of love and good things but...well. He also consorts with demons-” he gestured to himself dramatically- “and he indulges in copious amounts of alcohol without much needling. He doesn’t need to eat but I’ve seen him polish off five course meals before without even having the decency to look ashamed.”  
  
The sins of Aziraphael were minor and many. Every indulgence was one of bliss and joy that he was sure the angel felt no true remorse over unless called out. Crowley never did make it a habit to do that. 

 

He enjoyed Aziraphael as he was: perfect in his imperfections. An angel in humans clothing. 

 

It wasn’t a new realization for the demon. Aziraphael chased both his sleeping and waking hours, making cameos in all aspects of his life. He used to fight against it, waking up suitable frustrated to have the angel in his dreams again. Then he stopped fighting and just...allowed it. Embraced it. Loved it.   
  
It was nice to allow his unconscious mind to create images of his angel down on his knees or wrapped up in his arms or just holding his hand as they fed ducks….

 

It was, quite frankly, very undemon-like. He wouldn’t change it for the world. 

 

Anathema standing shook him from his thoughts. She smoothed her the wrinkles in her dress...and smiled at him. “I think I may have a plan. How much are you willing to do to help?”  
  
What a stupid question.

 

He’d do whatever it took.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Aziraphael was luxuriating in a bubble bath that rose up to his neck that smelled of roses and patchouli. The air was humid and hot, the music soft and distant enough to provide atmosphere with little distraction. In his left hand was a glass filled with the sweetest wine he had ever tasted, at his right there was a book and a bowl of strawberries dipped in chocolate. 

 

Never in his life had he felt so decadent. He could stay like this forever as long as the wine never stopped and atmosphere remained perfect. Perhaps he would. Oh yes! What a wonderful way to spend eternity! Wrapped up in pleasure unceasing with not a care in the world! He had done his part, after all! The world was safe, the antichrist living a life suitable for any young boy, heaven and hell had both-

 

There was a bit of fuzziness at the edges of his mind. Heaven. Hell. They had both...both….

 

The thought slipped from him like sand through his fingers. He couldn’t even remember thinking it.

 

He took another sip of wine. 

 

Yes. This would be his holiday. For all eternity he’d stay here, indulging himself until he was at one with the bathwater, wine, steam, and pages. Less a man, less an angel and more a living concept of intemperance. He was owed that much after being so good for so long.

 

...yes! He was owed his revelry! Owed his rest and owed his emptiness! Owed standing on his feet instead of at his knees-

 

Again, that sickening fuzziness. He imagined he could hear Her voice.  _ Just a moment longer, dear, just a moment longer. Don’t slide too far. Don’t doubt. Don’t make vows and ask questions you will regret.  There are rules. Help is coming. Just hold on a moment longer, Aziraphael.  _

 

Static, thick and oozing in his subconscious mind.

 

Her voice was gone. He had quite forgotten he heard it. Yet there was an absence.   
  
He could stay here forever but it felt like _something_ was missing. He was forgetting a piece that would make all of this all the more perfect. 

 

Then he was there. Yellow eyes blinking owlishly as he took in the sights around him. Aziraphael laughed, overjoyed. “Crowley, my dear, my darling!” 

 

Crowley blinked at him again, drinking in the sight. Aziraphael didn’t have the decency to blush. “...angel...you look...surprisingly well?” He muttered, looking around again as if he were expecting a great mongoose to jump out and eat him up. 

 

“As do you! Far too clothed for a bath, I’m afraid, but that’s easily remedied.” Aziraphael laughed again, this time at Crowleys guilty expression. “Come now. Surely you want to?”   
  
“Later. Under different circumstances.” The demon looked at him again before looking away, not sure where he should turn his eyes. Odd. He had never known Crowley to be shy. “How long have you been here, angel?”  
  
Aziraphael thought it over with a hum. He felt like it had been forever. “I can’t say I rightly know. A while?”  
  
Crowley nodded slowly and sat at the edge on the tub carefully. “And...where is here? This isn’t the bathroom at the shop.”  
  
Once again Aziraphael was forced to think it over. He found it a bit more difficult, however, because he wasn’t quite sure where this was. It simply...was. A hotel, perhaps? Or an inn? A spa? Oh dear, it was all getting quite fuzzy and a tad distressing!

 

Then the question was gone, dissipating with the steam. For a moment he fancied he heard laughter and put it off as being someone in the next room. Crowley was bristling, puffing like a great adder. 

 

“My dear, get undressed. Come in the bath with me,” he beckoned to the demon, wanting nothing more than for him to come closer. “I’ll read to you and you can lay upon my chest. Doesn’t that sound lovely? I’ve just been reading some Thomas, you know. “The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs” and all that. Won’t you indulge me, my dear?” 

 

Crowley made a sputtering noise like choking, his face the shade of the red shirts he’d sometimes wear. “Angel!” He gasped as if Aziraphael had burned him. “You pick the worst times to be bastard, you know that, right?”   
  
Aziraphael tilted his head. “Do you not want to come in with me?” For some reason, he hadn’t been prepared for a rejection. 

 

The lines in Crowleys face softened to something more agonized and sorely tempted. He groaned, deep in his throat, fingers twitching. “Aziraphael….”  
  
The angel blinked up at him in confusion. “Crowley?”   
  
The demon struggled, face turning a deeper shade of red. “-veyou-” He finally said, face pinched. 

 

“What was that, dear?”  
  
Crowley swallowed, adams apple bobbing tightly in his throat. “I love you. Since forever. Since before forever. It was ineffable, maybe, that I always would.”  
  
Aziraphael laughed. “Why, I know that.” It was true. For some reason he felt like saying that should have felt...bigger. “I love you as well. With all my heart!” It was easy.

 

Too easy?

 

No. He deserved easy. 

 

Crowley looked pained. “Angel, this is serious. I love you. I love you so much I can taste blood in my mouth saying it. I love you in a way that makes me holy. I love you so much I’d move the earth and everything in between. I love you like God loves the universe. I love-”  
  
Aziraphaels heart was thundering in his chest. The water was starting to become bitterly cold. It smelled rank. He swore he could here snarling from...from somewhere. “Crowley, dear, I know-!”  
  
“Then please!” It was a desperate plea, he was leaning over him, gripping his shoulders so hard it hurt. “Please SEE. For me?”  
  
Aziraphael felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice into something terrifying. Something horrible. The music was gone. Around him there was oppression. He couldn’t breathe. No no no. His bath, his wine, his book, his Crowley-!   
  
“Aziraphael!” Crowley was looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Please!”   
  
He didn’t know what to do. Crowley’s face was so close-

 

He kissed him, hard and desperate, their teeth clacking together painfully. He anchored to him, held tight even as that growl turned into a roar. Crowley’s hands pressed to his shoulder, bringing him close. Closer. So close he felt that their physical bodies would collapse and they’d swap all over again.

 

Then they were falling away. Tumbling down, down, down, down….  
  
Then there was Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not edited. We are coming closer to the close.


	9. Coming Around

It was blinding and familiar, the Light. Celestial down to its core. Aziraphale could only gaze at it through his fluttering eyelashes as he awoke from the first sleep he ever had. Heaven. This was heaven. He felt sure. 

Then Gabrielle spoke. “See? All done. The traitor is awake.”

Aziraphale groaned before he could stop himself. Then remembered this was Archangel Gabrielle, technically his superior, and groaned more politely. 

Crowley made no such overtures of politeness, launching himself from his place at Aziraphale’s side and starting on tirade that he was far too drowsy to completely comprehend. The demon had a particular ‘hate on’ for the archangel since their body swap and, though he never directly told Azirphale why, swore up and down that if he ever saw him again he’d stuff a cactus up his nose.

Yet there he was, cactus free, standing in Crowley’s bedroom and tolerating not only a demon calling him down to the dirt but two humans standing on either side of him. 

Belatedly, Aziraphael realized he knew these two. Anathema and Newton. They had been there at The End, doing their part. A charming young couple, truly, but why were they here? 

The angel sat up, shaking his head to clear the confusion lurking at the corners of his mind, and spotted the hastily drawn summoning circle on the floor, surrounding the annoyed archangel. Oh, so the witch had summoned him? Except...summoning an archangel was meant to be impossible….

He noticed the bloody footprints next, inside the circle, to the bed, back again, repeat. He followed their path with interest and increasing alarm. Crowley’s feet were bleeding. He gasped softly as everything became crystal clear, all the pieces falling into place. 

Azirphael had fallen under Uriels and Belphagors combined efforts. Crowley found he had some difficulty getting to him and had enlisted the help of the witch at some point. They decided to take their issue to a ‘higher power’ but had no way of contacting them. They created a summoning circle and, when that failed, Crowley had gone through to the celestial realm and dragged Gabrielle out before forcing him to give Crowley entrance to Azirphaels mind-

He put his head between his knees. Oh. He really was having a panic attack now. He could have Fallen! He was so very close to Falling that Her voice had come to him and he had dismissed it! Beyond that, Crowley could have been killed for daring to enter the holiest of places! Falling would have been awful but...but Crowley could have just ceased to be! 

A weight was thrown across his shoulders. An arm. Gabriel made a disgusted noise and the owner of the weight hissed before nudging close to his ear. “Keep it together, Angel. I promise you can cry it out shortly. Just keep it together, alright?”

Aziraphael took a deep breath and nodded. If over dramatic, flailing about, distinctly not kept together Crowley was telling him to keep it together he probably needed to heed him. 

“Now, um, sir,” Anathema spoke and Aziraphale looked up in time to realize that she was daring to speak to Gabriel, “I do believe you have a-uhm-employee to deal with? As per our agreement? Then you’ll be free to go.” 

She toed at the chalk lines on the floor, hinting at breaking the circle. 

Gabriel looked quite put out. “Usually I’d just send a note of reprimand for this kind of infraction. Uriel was just showing initiative, after all, and we encourage-”

Crowley was hissing again. “Reprimand in persssssson. Get them out of my housssse.”

Gabriel’s lip curled terribly, even as he offered a tight smile. He snapped his fingers. Blinked when nothing happened. Snapped again. 

No Uriel. No Belphagor. The house was free of their oppressive energy...but neither made an appearance. 

Gabriel snapped again and again in alarm before realizing all eyes were on him and tucking his hands behind his back and schooling his expression to something more professional. “It appears Uriel is...taking a holiday. I’ll have the paperwork filed to have them put on a leave of absence without pay pending an internal investigation and send off a notice to Lord Beelzebub regarding this as well.” 

All were staring, slack jawed. 

“You mean to tell me there’s a rogue angel and a demon with a contract out there consorting and you can’t do anything?” Crowley snapped, earning a glared from the archangel.

“You should be very familiar with that!” 

“Not the same! WE didn’t try to destroy-” Aziraphaels hand on Crowleys arm stilled him. The angel looked at his superior with a tight, polite smile. 

“Thank you for your time, Gabriel. It’s very much appreciated.” He scuffed the lines of the chalk circle, breaking the bonds. “Do include me in the memo chain regarding the matter, if you please?”   
Gabriel met his eyes, studied him for a long moment, nodded stiffy, and vanished in a puff of ozone. 

“Better to let him go before he gets angry,” Aziraphael justified before anyone could question him. “He’ll be more cooperative if we need him in the future.”

Crowley made a vague noise of consent at his side before rising to his feet and limping over to the witch and her lover. “Thanks for the assist. You can go now.”

 

Anathema was rightly taken aback. “There no lingering auras other than your own here but I’m not certain-”

“Just like that?!” Newton said at the same time, insulted. 

“Just like that,” Crowley smiled tensely. “You have twenty seconds to vacate before I snap my fingers and give you both the ride of your lives.” 

Newton made a noise between alarm and scandalized anger while Anathema looked caught between decking the demon and storming out. Crowley raising his hand, his thumb pressed to his forefinger, seemed to decide everything for them and they bolted, whispering about what an arse he all the way. 

“Do stop by the shop for tea!” Aziraphael called after them, feeling terribly about their forced departure but understanding it. Crowley probably needed time to gather his thoughts and adjust to what had happened. 

As did Aziraphael. 

He looked to the window. The sky was growing pink with twilight. Had it truly only been a day? He got to his feet and looked to where Crowley was leaning on the doorframe, making sure his guest had left, and cleared his throat to draw his attention. “Ah...well...I suppose I should get back. Terrible business this all was. I’m glad you’re okay-”

Crowley was looking at him with an inscrutable expression. His pulse quickened. He could still remember the tail end of his dream...no doubt Crowley could as well. Aziraphael looked to the remains of the chalk circle, suddenly very interested in its intricate lines. “Thank you for...for coming in for me. You always do that, don’t you? Come swooping in after I’ve managed to cock things up-”

Crowley was moving towards him, seemingly unbothered by the wounds on his feet. “I really did hope I’d be able to save you. Hah...perhaps pride blinded me to outside help and I wanted the glory all to myself? Reckless of me, really, to just dive in to your head over and over without-”

His lips stilled in their babbling as Crowley pressed his palm to his jaw, gently forcing him to meet yellow eyes with blue. The angel swallowed, wet lips, and dared not say another word. 

The kiss was brief and chaste. A warm press of lips to lips that sent his soul soaring skywards. His fingers twitched at his side before making the journey to Crowley’s arm, brushing along the fabric there. When the demon pulled back Aziraphael was sure he had taken his breath with him. 

Then he was gone, limping to the bathroom. “Getting a shower. Wine and rum are down stairs. Want to order in some curry?” 

“Wh-? Y-yes. I’ll...do that,” Aziraphael murmured dumbly as the demon flashed him a small, grateful smile, and shut the door. 

Well...he supposed they had things to say to each other and curry did sound wonderful….

Oh hell. He didn’t really want to go, anyways. 

Crowley was here, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to slake your thirst, I believe.


	10. Perchance to Dream

The curry had already arrived by the time Crowley made his grand appearance downstairs. His hair was still wet, or perhaps moussed, and his skin was so red from scrubbing and heat that it might have been just easier for the serpent to shed it altogether. He was dressed in black as always, sun glasses perched upon his nose.

 

If Aziraphael was honest he was a little disappointed. Perhaps he had certain feelings left over from his dream but he had hoped that, perhaps, the demon would make their appearance in a robe or a towel, like something ripped from the cover of a battered novella. The flood gates had been open in his mind and he couldn’t stop the imagery. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

 

He could still feel Crowley’s lips burning against his own. 

 

They didn’t speak much at first. There would be time for that. Right now there was hot curry and two glasses of wine airing out on the coffee table. They needed a moment of silence before they moved on to whatever came next. They had known each other long enough to be able to sit in companionable silence, lost in their own thoughts, without it being awkward.

 

It wasn’t even awkward when Crowley put his arm around his shoulders under the pretense of refilling his glass. Or when it didn’t move away afterwards. 

 

Aziraphael smiled and leaned back into it. 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They had very nearly polished off the wine and Crowley was considering cracking open the rum when Aziraphael spoke, a slight slur in his voice. “You hung the stars.”  
  
Crowley, momentarily taken off guard by the blunt observation, nodded. “Aye. Yes. I did. Some of them.”  
  
“It was beautiful. I never knew. I mean, I knew but I never _knew_ ,” Aziraphale tried to clarify. Crowley’s lips twitched at the corner in a fond smirk. He understood what he meant. “I never created anything.”  
  
Crowley hummed and nodded once again, allowing his arm to fall from the angels shoulders long enough to grab the bottle of pitch blac rum that was tempting him from the table. “You could,” he commented as he summoned two rocks glasses. “I bet you’d make something so pretty men would weep.”  
  
“I don’t know how,” mused his angel, a pout at his bottom lip. Crowley skipped the glasses and took a swig directly from the bottle to cope with the sight.   
  


“I’ll teach you,” he volunteered impulsively. Just as quickly he corrected himself. “I could. I would. Don’t think that’s something that’s in the tool kit anymore. I could walk you through it?”

 

Aziraphael smiled at him, blue eyes sparkling gently,  and he felt less foolish for his hasty offer. “...perhaps you should learn to paint. You obviously don’t have any problem with creative imagery.”  
  
Crowley took another drink and shoved the bottle into his angels hands. “Ah...well...maybe.”  
  
“I’d hang even your first work in the shop,” Aziraphael chuckled and took a drink for himself.   
  
Crowley said nothing, only took the bottle back and took another deep pull.   
  
He did know a nice, fine arts supply shop. 

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Was it frightening?” Aziraphael slurred after the rum was half gone. “Turning into a snake?” 

 

Crowley looked up to the white expanse of the ceiling. Aziraphael waited patiently, wondering if he misstepped with the question. The Fall was something they never spoke about and, now that he had seen it, he wondered if the subject was even more taboo than before. 

 

“...the falling was terrifying. The transformation was...unexpected. Didn’t know what a snake was yet. I might have been the first. Thought I was just an abomination.” He spoke softly, distantly, as if he could recall the moment perfectly. “I learned to like it. Snakes get to bask in the sun and they see all kinds of things from the ground. They don’t even want to fight, half the time. They just...get scared and strike out.”

 

Aziraphael could appreciate the symbolism. He placed a hand at Crowley knee, leaned in closer to his side. “I like snakes.”  
  
“I’ll get you one.”  
  
He laughed softly. Trust Crowley to offer to buy him a live animal. “I have one. I do not need two.”  
  
Crowley said nothing to that. He fancied the arm about his shoulders tightened, bringing him slightly closer. 

 

“Were you afraid when the book shop burned down?” He dared to ask, remembering the fluttering, burning pages. Crowley screaming his name until he could only hiss….

 

Crowley’s fingers twitched and he reached for the rum bottle. He took a drink, liquid spilling from the corner of his lips. “...you were gone. You’ve never gone before. You wouldn’t go on your own.” 

 

Aziraphael had begun stroking his knee in soothing, circular motions. Crowley ceased talking. 

 

There was a silent promise made to never go on without each other. 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The bird-”  
  
“-was you, yes,” Crowley slurred, three sheets to the wind. He’d been waiting for this. The rum was gone. Time for whiskey. He stumbled to his still aching feet and made the journey to the kitchen. 

 

“That’s very poetic,” mused Aziraphael, following along in his wake. Crowley could feel his curiosity building. “You want to cage me?”   
  
“It’s an old dream, angel.” It was the complete truth. Old as the Great Plan, at least. The written one, not the ineffable one. “Lot’s of demons would have happily kept old friends in cages if we won. The thought crawls in and takes hold.”  
  
“Belphagor alluded to that, I believe.” He passed around him, placing a hand on his hip briefly as he went. Crowley felt his knees nearly buckle, even under such brief and innocent contact. 

 

 “So, you’d have kept me?” He opened the liquor cabinet, beating the demon to the punch on the mission for alcohol.   
  
“I’d like to keep you now.” The words tumbled out and he wished he could put them right back in. Yes, let’s lay that tasty morsel out for the angel to devour and critique. 

 

Except he didn’t. A muffled “Oh…” Was swallowed up by the cupboard. The Aziraphael was pulling out, all tipsy smiles and pretty eyes, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “I’m sorry, by the way. For the smack. I do believe Belphagor or Uriel were playing with my sense of self preservation and righteousness.”   
  
Crowley grinned, wide and wicked. “The righteousness was quite a sight to behold.” It had been downright hot, actually. There was no way he could lie to himself about that. If it hadn’t been for the blood and pain and the expression Aziraphael had sported directly after his imagination probably would have cooked up all manner of mortifying fantasy. 

 

...Aziraphale’s smile had waivered, unsure. “I’m not sure I follow. Or perhaps I do.” His cheeks began to flush. “Oh! I do!”  
  
Crowley roared with laughter, just drunk enough to allow himself that, and threw his arms around his angel.  “Come on. Let’s tear into the whiskey and you can tell me what you think I meant.”

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Sssoooo...the bath….” Crowley purred beneath him, he could feel the vibration of his voice through his lips as he had his face tucked into the man’s neck. Aziraphale groaned. He had known this would come and now he was far to drunk and cuddly to even defend himself. 

 

“I like baths,” he murmured, lips just barely brushing the skin there. If he pressed forward he’d be able to kiss him directly over his pulse point. Would he squirm? Gasp? Forget all about his many faults? 

 

Crowley shifted slightly and Aziraphale wondered briefly if he was crushing him. Yet the demon made no attempt to extract himself and instead let his arm sling over his waist in the worlds laziest embrace. “...I don’t have a tub. Only a shower.”  
  
Aziraphale’s eyebrows knit. “...yes?” What was he on about? 

 

Crowley shifted again as he shrugged. “Was thinking about remodelling the bathroom. S’all. Do they make clawfoot tub with hot tub jeeaah-?!”   
  
Ah! So kissing him there made him forget everything _and_ gasp!

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

One well placed kiss lead to another. Then another. An escalating battle of kisses until they were both down right snogging on Crowley’s brand new couch. Bless the holy trinity of six thousand years of barely repressed love and desire, a traumatic experience, and alcohol. If Crowley’s mouth wasn’t occupied with demonstrating a trick he learned to do in the sixth century with his tongue on Aziraphale’s tongue he would have said so. 

 

Then the angel moaned and did something very sneaky and delightfully wicked with the hand that was wedged between them. The thought shattered into a million pieces, eroded, and carried away on the winds witticisms past. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They probably should have moved upstairs but the bed was unappealing at the moment. Too heavy with bad feelings. Violated by interlopers. There was still blood and chalk on the floor, terrified sweat in the sheets. 

 

By the next afternoon all of it would be gone. The blood and chalk brushed away with a tender, reflective miracle. The bed reduced to ash and swept into the nearest bin. They’d both go the department store and order something plush and not  _ too _ big. Something wooden and four posted with good bones. 

 

That was a long time away. As it were they were struggling from clothing and trying to stay as close to each other as they could. One of them knocked the remaining whiskey off the coffee table and it rolled beneath the couch, leaving an amber trail in its wake. 

 

Neither noticed. 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

There was no discussion of ‘have you done this before?’ or ‘am I doing alright?’ It was easy, it turned out. Perhaps it always was and they hadn’t noticed. 

 

“Angel,” was purred into Aziraphael’s ear at the same time the demon ground against him, bare skin against bare skin, hard against hard. He gasped, saw stars, wondered deliriously if Crowley had done that intentionally, only to forget the thought completely when he did it again.

 

“Oh  _ daaarling _ ,” he moaned in return, the word caught and extended as tremor of delight coursed from the tips of his toes to the ends of his hair. Thank goodness he had recently had a manicure or he certainly would have torn the dear, sweet mans back wide open with all the gripping and pulling he was doing as he held on for dear life. 

 

Another sharp roll of his hips, this time with slender fingers closed around the two of them, and they were both making indecent noises. Panting, Stealing breath from each other. 

 

Aziraphale spoke in Enochian as a particularly strong fit took him and Crowley could feel his plants shudder in embarrassment at just how truly intimate the words were. Crowley himself nearly lost it right then, overcome by the depth of feeling. He wanted to repeat it back but knew full well that it would burn him from the inside out. 

 

Instead kissed the angel so well and deep that he couldn’t find the breath in himself to say it again. He replaced it with “I love you”, saying it directly against his lips between sharp gasps and needy noises, until it was being said back to him as reverently as any prayer. 

 

Then all was light and good and sticky sweet and  **_stars._ **

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

At some point they had fallen off the couch. It was from this position Aziraphael spotted the abandoned bottle of whiskey and, feeling benevolent and quite thirsty, saved it from its dusty fate. He took a pull and passed it to the demon he was curled up against. “It would be a shame to waste it.”

 

“We’re going to forget to sober up, pass out like this, and wake up feeling filthy and really hungover, you know.” Crowley correctly observed. Still, he grinned at the thought and took a drink as well. 

 

“Perhaps I’ll help in the bathroom renovation. Surely between the two of us we can make a bathtub to accommodate us both. Wings and all, if we wished.” Aziraphale cuddled closer, quite certain that he was soon going to be occupying the same space as Crowley’s atoms. 

 

“Mmn, would love to groom your wings,” Crowley murmured into his angels hair. A moment passed. “What do we do about the Haters?”  
  
“Haters? Ah. Uriel and Belphagor.” Aziraphale was quiet a moment. “...we worry about it come the morning. Right now, I do believe we should kiss again. Just in case.”  
  
“Just in case?” Questioned Croley with the arch of an eye brow and a sharp toothed smile. 

 

Aziraphale smiled back, closing the distance between them. Tomorrow was another day as of yet untouched. They’d walk through fire and flames and sanctified ground for each other if trouble came...and if the sun rose like always with no evil at their door they’d kiss then as well.

 

For now, they’d sleep and dream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go folks. The end. Perhaps I'll do something less sappy and more explicit later. For now this is it. I'll be editing from start to finish in a day or two so check back if you want!
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and love! It's been overwhelming and the best motivation I can ask for. I have a few I want to respond to personally but don't feel bad if I don't get to yours! I love all of them!

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written fan fiction in forfuckingever. Not beta'd or anything so I may go back and tweak things. Reviews feed me and stroke my ego, Kudos makes me feel tingly. Hope you have fun!


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